


Bullets and Blood and Promises

by AllieHink



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gunshot Wounds, Little bit of angst, M/M, Not a lot though, Sweet, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieHink/pseuds/AllieHink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg saves Mycroft from an assassination attempt and is injured in the process. Mycroft is angry with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullets and Blood and Promises

Gunshots rang in the cold air. After the first sharp crack, I launch myself at the man walking next to me, tackling him to the ground and shielding him with my body. There are screams and the sound of running feet as people scramble for cover. I raise my head and try to locate the source of the danger, but I see nothing. At a gasp from the man struggling beneath me, I refocus my attention on him.

“My? Mycroft, are you okay? Did he hit you?” I say. I have to force my words past the lump in my throat where my heart has seemingly taken up residence. My entire body is tingling and my blood is on fire from the adrenaline pumping through my veins. 

There is no answer, and for one terrifying moment, I feel my heart stop. I focus my gaze on him. His eyes are open wide, but there is no indication of pain in his expression. My heart starts up again in a pounding rhythm as I let loose a silent sigh of relief and push myself up once I am certain that the danger has passed.

A bolt of fire shoots through my side, but I ignore it for the moment and haul Mycroft to his feet. This sends an even sharper pain through my body, and a hiss escape my lips before I can stop it.

Immediately, Mycroft is at my side, hands tightly gripping my arms as I sag against a nearby building. “Gregory,” he says, concern dripping from his words, “What’s wrong? What is it?”

“I think—“ I force past clenched teeth, then pause to take a calming breath. I raise my hand to where the pain is radiating from. It comes away wet and red, and I quickly replace it and press on the wound. “Shit. The bastard got me,” I say.

I hear Mycroft’s breath hitch as one hand tightens its grip on my arm and the other delves into his pocket for his phone. He calls for an ambulance and I try to ignore the pain spreading out from the wound. It’s on my left ribs just a few inches below my arm. It doesn’t feel too deep, probably just a graze, which is most likely why it took so long for me to notice it.

Mycroft snaps his phone closed and shoves it back in his pocket, then gently slides his hand to cradle the side of my neck, his long fingers burying themselves in the short hairs on my nape. I look into his face and see worry clouding his dark blue eyes and creating deep furrows in his porcelain face. He is even whiter than usual, and he looks slightly sick.

“Hey, My. It’s okay. It’s just a scratch,” I say, trying to reassure him. A flash of something replaces the worry in his eyes, but before I can decipher what it is, I am distracted by the wail of sirens as the ambulance pulls up to the curb. I push it out of my mind as the paramedics jostle me onto a stretcher. I try to insist that I am fine, and that I can sit up and walk on my own, but they are hearing none of it. I roll my eyes and let them do their jobs.

One short visit to the A&E and twenty-three stitches later, we are tucked into a sleek black town car as it silently speeds through the dark streets towards home. Mycroft’s warm hand rests on my knee, but he is staring out the window with an odd look on his face. He had been mostly silent at the hospital, only answering when a direct question was posed to him. Silence is not entirely uncharacteristic of Mycroft, he is perfectly capable of expressing himself without the need for words, but there is something about this particular silence that bothers me.

The car pulls up to our flat, and we troop up the stairs, one of Mycroft’s hands resting protectively on the small of my back.

Once inside, I sink down onto the sofa with a groan and Mycroft disappears into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he reappears with two steaming cups of tea on saucers. He hands me one and I take a grateful sip of the hot liquid as Mycroft settles stiffly beside me.

“Thanks, love,” I say. We sit quietly for a while. He’s sitting close to me, I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. I shift closer so that my arm is gently pressed against his. Mycroft leans into the contact almost desperately, and I feel the need to say something. I settle for an attempt at humor. “Well, that wasn’t quite what I had in mind for this evening, but it was memorable to say the least,” I say with a chuckle and stare at my tea.

Mycroft stiffens and sits up straighter, breaking our contact. “How can you be so nonchalant about this?” he growls, “You could have died, Gregory! If that bullet had been just a few inches to the right…” He can’t continue. He takes a deep breath and I see his eyes shining strangely, as if there are tears welling up in them. “This is all my fault,” he finally chokes out.

I jump at his outburst, my tea sloshing onto my shirt. I barely notice it however as I stare in shock at my lover. “What?” I am finally able to force out, “Don’t be ridiculous, My. This wasn’t your fault. How could it be? You didn’t shoot me.”

“I might as well have. That man was after me.” 

“What do you mean, he was after you?” I reply.

“In those negotiations last month, there were some… disagreements. Certain parties were left less than satisfied with the arrangement, and it appears as though they decided to back out by removing me.”

“Oh… Oh, My.” Rage and fear well up in my chest. All I can think about is wanting to find these men and, as Mycroft so eloquently put it, “remove” them. Of course, this goes against everything I stand for as a detective, but… reason has little to do with matters of the heart, doesn’t it? 

I reach out to touch his cheek, and he leans into my hand with a pained look on his face. The rage melts away, and is replaced by warm affection. “Look, I’ll be fine,” I say, “Give me two or three weeks and I’ll be good as new. Besides, you’re alive, I’m alive. I’d say that’s a pretty good day, wouldn’t you?”

Mycroft’s stiffens again and pulls away, a hard, icy look settling itself over his features.

“No. Gregory, I would not say that is ‘a pretty good day’,” he says, rising to his feet. He begins to pace the sitting room, staying just out of reach as he passes.

“You could have died,” he continues, “I could have lost you, and if that happened, I don’t know what I would do. You are my everything, Gregory. I love you so much that, at times, it hurts.”

At this point he has worked himself into a frenzy. He is pacing so quickly, he is nearly running. One hand is buried in his hair, the other fisted by his side. Suddenly, he halts in front of me. He takes a step forward and drops to his knees, hands gripping my own.

“Gregory, you have to promise me something. Promise me that you will never put your life in danger again. Least of all for me. _Never_ try to save my life if it means potentially sacrificing your own.”

I stare at him for a long while, unable to form words. “I can’t do that,” I finally say. Mycroft’s eyes flash and he opens his mouth to protest, but before he can speak, I continue. “ Wait, let me finish. I work for Scotland Yard. My life is in danger every day at work. And as for ‘sacrificing my life for yours’,” I say, tugging on Mycroft’s hands until he is once again seated on the sofa next to me, my arms wrapped around his shoulders, “My, I love you with everything that I am. I would gladly give up my life if it meant you would be safe. But I will promise you this; I will fight tooth and nail to make sure that never happens. I fully intend to be with you until we’re both old and wrinkly and retired somewhere in the country where we can live out our days in the peace and quiet.” I let a smile spread across my face as Mycroft meets my gaze.

“I think I’d like that,” he whispers.

“Good,” I say with a chuckle, “Because it’s not up for negotiation.” I tilt his chin up and press my lips against his. The kiss is soft and sweet, and it contains the promise of a lifetime together. Mycroft shifts so that he is pressed more closely to me, deepening the kiss, and slides his hands up my sides. His fingers graze over the wound on my side, and I gasp as the wound twinges from the contact.

Mycroft jerks back, a look of near horror on his face. “Gregory, I’m so sorry!” he gasps, pulling away and putting an unacceptable amount of distance between us.

The pain has already subsided, and now I frown at the loss of heat that is my lover’s body.

“Mycroft,” I say, “ I’m fine.” I push myself from the sofa and hold a hand out to Mycroft. He takes it and I tug him to his feet, and then pull him close. “Come here you daft man, “ I murmur, pressing small kisses against his perfect lips. “Let’s go to bed. I’m exhausted. I was shot today, you know.”

“I thought it was just a scratch,” Mycroft replies, grinning against my lips. I smile back and bring our lips together once more before pulling him into our bedroom and closing the door behind us.


End file.
